


Second best

by redsnake05



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, Illness, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is desperate; Harry and Hermione owe him a life debt. Ron is not happy about being the means of paying it off. A slow drop from hate and despair into love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thrihyne](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thrihyne).



Ron stood at the altar in the middle of a clearing in the bright afternoon sun of a perfect May day. The light was dappled and soft on his formal robes, the wind toying playfully with his hair until it was as unkempt as that of the man beside him. He flattened his hair with an impatient hand and scowled. Harry smiled up at him sunnily. 'It's supposed to be the groom that's impatient, mate," he said with a smile. "The best man is supposed to be the epitome of laid-back unconcern, wowing all the gathered guests with his debonair aura, so that he can have his pick of eligible beauties to dance with at the reception."

Ron's face twisted momentarily before he forced it into the travesty of a smile. "Well, we never could do anything the right way round. At least, that's what my Mum says." He was proud of the note of lightness to his voice. Let him get through this with his dignity intact. If he'd managed to go this long without Harry finding out, he could manage a few more hours.

Harry laughed happily, eyes roving back to the path that led to the glade, waiting for the music to herald her arrival, and completely unconcerned that it might not. Ron wished he'd been brave enough to stun her and lock her in a cupboard. He cursed his stupid nobility, cursed the stupid mantra of "Whatever makes Harry happy" he'd been chanting for the last ten years, and cursed Luna's completely disarming battiness. She would be perfect for Harry. Ron hated her, even as he admitted this.

When Luna arrived, walking between the rows of guests in a gown as far removed from the usual meringue-like monstrosities as possible, Harry's face glowed. Literally. Ron had to nudge him to get him to wind it back a bit before someone got blinded. Ron sighed. Six years after the final battle, 24 years old, single, still the loyal sidekick, and irredeemably in love with his best mate. He was going to get so pissed at the reception.

Harry and Luna went through all the steps of a traditional wedding. Ron smiled through gritted teeth through the lengthy vows. He handed over the red cord when it was time for the handfasting, and he provided the testimony of the witness during the searing. His heart ached as he realised that every step, every spell, was leaving him further behind. The rings were the final part, and Ron handed them over, feeling the box as heavy as rocks in his hand. When the bands of gold finally glittered on their fingers and they delighted the crowd with a long kiss, he felt the last bits of his heart shred into useless fragments.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The reception was just as bad. Harry and Luna danced the first dance, feet as light as the glowing candles and glittering fairies that decorated the hall. Ron followed with Hermione with feet like bricks. She smiled at him sympathetically. 'Ron," she said, after he'd stepped on her toes again in a particularly gruesome turn, "I know you hate dancing, but don't you think there are better ways to get out of doing it than by maiming your first partner in the hope that all the other women you ask will turn you down?"

"'Sorry, Hermione," he said. "I am trying."

"I know. And I cast the strongest charm to ward against clumsy dance partners I could find."

Ron laughed in spite of himself. "You've always been the brains of this outfit," he said.

She accepted the compliment as her due. "I have all my wits about me, I believe. In fact, something has just come up that makes me very glad I've got this chance to talk to you."

Ron raised his brows. "You can see me anytime you want," he said. "What's so special about today?"

"Well, when I tell you that Harry isn't leaving on his honeymoon until tomorrow afternoon, and maybe postponing it altogether, just because we need to deal with this, then you might see some urgency."

"Hermione, please don't say 'Harry' and 'honeymoon' in the same sentence."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, in a much gentler tone. "You know I forget sometimes, in the camaraderie of the trio."

"It's okay. It's just, well, final, now."

Hermione said no more, allowing him to steer her through the last of the dance in silence.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Draco sat in the cramped front room of his little flat, watching the healer pack up her bag and shrink it to fit in her pocket. He looked down at his hands, clenched into brittle, sharp-knuckled fists on his lap, bone white against the blackness of his robes. He felt the malevolent sneer of his childhood fighting to come out, fighting to lash out at this hapless healer, whose only fault was that she had no idea how to cure him. It was times like these that he felt like he'd never left his father behind; that no matter how much he changed, the old patterns were always there – a sneer, a cutting remark, a crafted insult. Anything to reaffirm the superiority of the Malfoy's station and place in society.

She looked up and smiled sympathetically. The urge to give into Lucius's teachings grew stronger. Draco could nearly feel his father's hand on his shoulder, pressing into it as he passed on yet another maxim regarding the status and respect due to a Malfoy, and the appropriate unpleasant behaviour needed to ensure it. He shook off that urge, and conjured a wan smile.

When she had left, he leaned back against the cushions of the comfortable chair in his little room. He clasped his hands together tightly, feeling the bone and tendon sharp and present against the skin. A month, at the most, and, if he didn't find someone within a week, the possibility of never recovering fully.

He desperately wanted a cup of tea, but couldn't summon the strength to stand and shuffle into the kitchen. Even if he did, the effort of filling the jug would probably finish him off. He sighed, despising himself for the weakness, and snapped his fingers to summon a house-elf from the Manor. When his mother had decided to live in France, after his father's death, he had decided to shut up the Manor and live in a little apartment by himself, but the elves were always available. He just didn't like to use them. He wanted to be free of the spectre of Malfoy. It was ironic that Potter and Granger were, to date, the only ones who had made the effort to see him as a real person.

The elf bowed low and soon a cup of tea was steaming by his elbow, along with a selection of treats to tempt his fugitive appetite. Biting into an éclair without enthusiasm, he hoped that his most unlikely chance of rescue came through. The éclair melted into his tongue, but might have been made of cardboard for all it delighted him.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

At the very end, when the bridal pair had gone, already kissing passionately as they stumbled into the Floo, and people, stuffed to the brim on the best catering money could buy and pleasantly sloshed on good champagne, were leaving, Hermione sought Ron out again and asked him to come back to her place. She had that solemn look again. Ron just wanted to go home and cry like a baby, but she was insistent. Perhaps it was best he wasn't left to his own devices. She sat him in the most comfortable chair and pressed a whiskey into his hand. From somewhere, probably his washing basket, he realised with faint indignation, she produced his favourite jeans and t-shirt and a pair of his most comfortable boxers. When she strolled back from the kitchen, five minutes later, with a big plate of shepherd's pie and some kind of vegetable doused in cheesy sauce, he knew he was being set up for something.

But speculation had to give way in the face of his favourite dinner. He had wolfed half of it down before Harry tumbled out of the Floo, face glowing with that post-coital look of contentment that Ron had learned to hate, clothes rumpled and pulled on seemingly at random. As Ron took this in, his stomach suddenly rebelled against the shepherd's pie and he pushed the plate aside.

"Well?" Ron said. "You've got me here. Are you going to tell me what it's about now?"

Never one to hesitate, Hermione shuffled through a stack of parchment and pulled one out. Its virulent green ink seemed ready to crawl off the page as she thrust it at him. "Have you ever heard of this curse before?"

Ron quickly skimmed the page, letting out a low whistle. This was nasty, and had been first designed, according to the parchment, to force unwilling victims into a marriage bond. It was certainly inventive, he had to give its creator that. "No," he replied. "But it sounds pretty nasty. Why do you ask?"

"Well, someone has been affected by it."

"What?" asked Ron.

"It appears," said Hermione, looking grimmer than ever, "that some Death Eater had his eyes on the wealth of a particular family, and concocted this scheme to get his hands on it. He died before it could really get its claws into the victim, though."

"Hermione, get to the point," said Ron, exasperated.

Hermione sniffed haughtily. "The short story is that the person affected needs to get married. Magically, with all the trimmings, and very soon. I estimate a week at the most. Oh, and it has to be to a pureblood."

Ron's brows rose in astonishment. "And you're telling me because…?" He looked from face to face, and then comprehension dawned. "Oh, no," he said. "I'm not doing it. I don't care who she is. You know I'm gay, for Merlin's sake, and I'm not doing it."

"I am certainly glad you're gay, Ron," said Hermione, acidly, "because the victim of this curse is a man."

"Well let him find a pureblood witch, then."

"He can't." She looked regretful. "The original caster was a man, and while another pureblood wizard can take his place, a witch cannot. The conditions won't be fulfilled."

"What conditions?" Ron demanded.

Hermione blushed a delicate pink. "The curse requires there to be penetration," she explained.

Ron collapsed back in his chair. He glanced at Harry, who had been sitting silent opposite him. He looked so good, rumpled and sleepy eyed with those slightly swollen lips. Ron covered his moment of aching appreciation quickly. "Help me out here, mate," he appealed.

Harry shook his head. "You're his only hope, Ron. You can't let him die."

"Can't you find someone else? And why is it so important to you that I do it, anyway?" He looked from one guilty, determined face to the other, and light dawned. He jumped from his chair and ran to the bathroom, barely making it before losing his shepherd's pie, along with everything else he'd eaten that day, down the toilet.

Retching helplessly, he remained crouched over the bowl for several moments before finally slumping back against the cold white wall. He absently cast a freshening charm on his breath and flushed the toilet. As an afterthought, he locked the door. He couldn't believe they would ask it of him. That they could even consider asking him. The cold seeped from the tiles into his skin and matched the cold rolling through his stomach and bones.

He looked up at the ceiling and thought about just Apparating home. He could pack a few things and hide for a week. Even as he thought it he realised that Hermione had probably foreseen this and warded against apparition. Besides, they would never forgive him for running away. Him running away was what got them into this mess in the first place, his absence from the horcrux hunt for the time that had resulted in Harry and Hermione owing a life debt to that ferrety bastard. His mouth still felt sour, but he knew it was mostly the lingering taste of guilt for not being there for them.

The cold tiles bit hard against his back, but he ignored them, lost in a fog of remembrance. His temper, his storming off, and what had Harry and Hermione done? Got into trouble. Only for Draco-bloody-Malfoy to rescue them both, leading to them feeling like they owed a life debt. Hell, they even went and visited him. He was only surprised that Malfoy hadn't been at the wedding today. Oh, that was right, he was sick. Ron snorted, poking at a thin patch on his jeans. And Ron Weasley was to rescue him.

He levered himself up off the floor and rubbed his hands over his jeans nervously. Best to go and face them. He peered at himself in the mirror and practiced his firm and resolute face. He wasn't going to let them talk him into this.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Two days later, Ron stood by the altar in a clearing in the woods by the Burrow. His parents knew the truth, and were braced to meet the resulting scandal head on. His father clapped him on the back and left the clearing. He stood alone, sun hiding behind the clouds, wind whipping green leaves off the trees and blowing them around him in small flurries of destruction. He could still hear Hermione's voice in his ears. "It's only a year and a day, and you owe it to us. You owe us." Harry's face had been set, too. Whatever had happened while he'd been gone hadn't been pretty. Harry had nodded, once. "You owe us."

He heard the shuffle of footsteps from the path, distracting him from the bitter and implacable voices in his head, but refused to turn around. Clinging to the illusion that maybe this wasn't happening and he was just here for a walk instead, he hoped that they'd pass on by.

"Ron!" exclaimed Harry, voice coloured with relief.

Ron stared down at the altar. "Don't say anything," he said, wearily. "Just leave him here and go. I don't want to talk to you right now."

"But-"

"No! Shut up and go away! I don't want to talk to you, listen to you, or even think of you right now!" he exploded. Damn both of them and their bloody determination that this was the only way to make it right, that a year of bondage to Malfoy was a just payment for his abandonment.

He heard footsteps retreating. When he was sure Harry was gone, Ron turned to find a pale shadow of Draco Malfoy looking at him, the faintest sneer fighting with a grimace of pain on a face grown sharp and hollowed. He huffed impatiently and conjured a stool. "Where's your witness?" he asked, brusquely.

"You just sent him away."

Ron closed his eyes against the pain that stabbed through him. Of course, his best friend would stand up for the biggest, stupidest, most disastrous mistake of his life. And not for him. "He can come back when the celebrant arrives." He turned away, face stony and set as Malfoy lowered himself onto the stool.

Even after the celebrant arrived, guided by George, Ron kept his face down. He'd agreed to the barest bones of the traditional ceremony, no extras, no frills. His voice parroted the vows obediently. He wound the red cord around Malfoy's bony wrist, submitted to having his bound. The cord was removed and put away on the altar, followed by more vows. They walked hand in hand around the altar, three times clockwise, Malfoy leaning heavily on Ron as they paced. Their witnesses spoke their testimony, George's toneless voice betraying his feelings on the occasion. He didn't look at Ron's bridegroom either, concentrating fiercely on the solemn oaths. Then more vows, until Ron's head was spinning almost in time with the churning in his stomach. Finally the rings. If Harry's had felt like rocks in the box as he handed it over, then these felt like lead. His weighed down his finger, gleaming only dully in the greyish light.

It was almost over. Ron glanced at Malfoy only long enough to pinpoint his mouth in the middle of that sharply drawn face. He hoped he didn't vomit before he got there. The faintest green tint laced Malfoy's face too, and his lips were cold and clammy as Ron's brushed over them. He fought the urge to rub his hand over his mouth to remove the touch.

As Harry helped Malfoy from the clearing, the celebrant walking with them, Ron banished the stool with a bitter sneer twisting his lips. George clapped him on the back and they followed slowly. Pausing on the edge of the woods, looking up as a faint ray broke through the clouds; George fished a vial out of his pocket and handed it over wordlessly. Ron glanced at it, taking in the bright blue contents. His face tightened into grim lines and he pocketed it wordlessly. He didn't need to be told what that was, and was grateful that George had thought of it. He'd been so busy getting ready that he'd completely forgotten about ensuring the co-operation of his cock. Penetration was required to seal the binding. After they broke bread. My, that was going to be a festive meal.

George punched Ron on the arm. "I'm here for you, mate," he said gruffly. Ron scuffed his foot in the leaf litter and sighed.

"I wish this was the bonding to the man of my dreams, and that you had stood up for me on the day I became the happiest man on earth," he said.

George smiled. "If it was the bonding of your dreams, Bill, Charlie and I would have had an all-out fist fight to decide which one of us stood up for you. Charlie always has been the dirtiest fighter in the family." With rare tact, he did not mention Harry. Ron hoped he would be gone by the time they made it to the house for the food.

He was still there, hovering behind Malfoy's chair. Looking sideways, Ron saw George's lips compress, and watched with relief as he said something to Harry in a low voice that had him leaving the room. Ron hoped he got lost in the Floo on the way home. Ron slid into the chair next to Malfoy, watching silently as his mum loaded the table with the last platter and sat in her usual spot. Ron's dad looked greyer and more worn than he had any time in the last six years, standing at the head of the table, waiting for George to sit down. Ron felt a pang of remorse for dragging all his family through the mill of conjecture and scandal that would undoubtedly follow this binding. Many still thought the Malfoy name was tainted, and all the old stories of the feud between their families would be dragged up and gossiped over again.

As Arthur spoke the words of the head of the family that were traditional for the wedding breakfast, Ron felt himself slipping even deeper into the unreality of the day. He wanted to wake up and find that it was the morning of Harry's wedding, when his heart was getting stomped on, then torn up, and then dipped in boiling oil, but at least he wasn't sacrificing himself to save Draco Malfoy.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, too weary to stay awake, too anxious to sleep. He had slowly stripped down to his boxers, folding the heavy black robes neatly and laying them on top of his suitcase. He wondered where he would sleep tomorrow. Weasley had insisted they stay at his house, and there was only one bed. Tonight he was too tired to care.

His very bones felt grey and heavy, and he lay back on the bed, pulling the sheet over him. Cardboard cutout moments from the ceremony jostled behind his eyes. Red silk circling his wrist in a crimson slash, falsely cheerful against his white skin and black robes. Weasley's face, faintly green and set as he leaned down for a chaste kiss. It burned on his lips. The curious glances from the celebrant, the kindly, motherly face of Molly Weasley, overshadowed with strain and suspicion.

Hating himself for his weakness, Draco wished there could have been another way than this. He would live, but the cost was prohibitive. He wondered idly, the thought fleeting at the top of his brain, how Weasley had been convinced, but it was soon submerged in general fear and restlessness and aching weariness. He hardly liked to think of Harry and Hermione's earnest assurances that it was right, and that Weasley would do it. He liked to think even less of their honourable care and support, their attempts to be friends. Closing his eyes again, he wished he could wake up and find that his whole life was one, long, dark dream.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Ron slowly washed his face and brushed his teeth and stripped down to his boxers, ready for bed. Malfoy had retired already, but Ron knew the consummation had to come tonight. There had to be penetration. The curse was very specific, more specific, he thought resentfully, than it really needed to be. He pulled out the blue vial and clutched it in his hand, then fished the lubricant and some Muggle condoms from the bathroom cabinet. Suddenly overwhelmed, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. It was smooth and hard and Ron wondered, slightly hysterically, if he could break it and if the jagged shards would be enough to drive into his heart. He couldn't hurt or plot to hurt Malfoy; that was tied in with the ritual. But, hurting himself was fair game.

Sighing, he straightened up and looked round the small bathroom, as if hoping for inspiration. There was none. He would have to march into his bedroom and fuck Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy was lying on the bed, face pressed into the pillows, sheet twisted around his waist. Ron watched him breathe for a moment. Every rib was visible, skin stretched tightly over bone, almost grey in the moonlight that was stealing in through a chink in the curtains. Ron fancied men, but he wasn't so keen when they were skeletal. He thanked George again, in his head, for the potion.

"Malfoy," he said. "Wake up. We have to fuck." He tried to sound brisk and matter of fact, but it came out croaky, like he hadn't used his voice for a long time. It was the first time he'd addressed Malfoy directly in more than five years, so perhaps his voice was gruff with disuse. "Malfoy!" he said again, louder.

Malfoy stirred, waking with a jerk. He saw Ron and his face twisted into that odd, faint sneer, mixed with a healthy dose of pain and fear. "I've prepared myself," he said, his voice faint and tentative in contrast to his hard and distant facial expression.

Ron nodded briskly, swallowed the potion, and climbed onto the bed. It was clinical, over quickly, and Ron rolled off to drop the condom into the bin. Malfoy lifted himself onto his elbows. "Thanks," he said, faintly.

Ron didn't answer, dropping back into bed and wishing that he didn't feel like he had just ruined his life all over again. Staring up at the ceiling, he felt his skin crawl with distaste at the sense memory of Draco Malfoy underneath him, making little quiet noises that might have been sobs, and wished he didn't feel so dirty. He clambered out of bed and headed for the shower.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Draco pressed his face into the pillows, trying to hide the marks of his tears and stifle his uneven breathing, still hitching a little on tiny sobs. He needn't have worried, Weasley levered himself from the bed and stalked from the room. Draco lay where he had slumped, trying to feel even the tiniest stir of healing inside himself. All he felt was cold, sore and used. Oh, and tired, his constant companion of the last few months. It was so hard to remember that he had once had energy and strength enough to pursue his own plans.

He had tried not to think of Weasley at all, in the last few years, and when he had walked into the clearing that morning, he realised he'd forgotten how tall Weasley was, how vibrantly red his hair was. Then he'd seen his face, and read the despair and reluctance in those stony blue eyes. No nobility or honour there, he mused.

Pressing his face into the pillow as he heard the shower run, he wondered how he could have been so naïve as to think that this would be easier and better than dying, and how he could have agreed to this. He cried.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

As the days lengthened into weeks and the mornings grew brighter, Ron was slowly able to forget the gossip and speculation, able to pick up the threads of his life again. As well as he was able, with the conspicuous absence of his two best friends. And the conspicuous presence of his husband. Ron's lip twisted as he opened a beer and went to sit on the balcony in the strengthening morning sunlight.

After that first, awkward night, when Ron had spent an uncomfortable night on the couch, his first task the next morning was to get a decent sofa bed. Malfoy continued to occupy the bedroom, lurking in it like a ghost that grew more substantial every day. Ron knew the healers came to visit, suspected that Harry and Hermione did too.

The door to the balcony opened again, and a small, surprised "Oh!" caused Ron to look up. Malfoy certainly looked better than he had a fortnight ago, he thought. Less like a waxy corpse. He shuddered inwardly at the memory of bony hips covered in dry skin like crepe paper under his hands, and quickly took a swig of beer to wash the taste away. "I'll just go," said Malfoy, nervously. Ron merely looked at his bottle of beer in silence and listened to the retreating footsteps.

He was surprised, therefore, to hear them returning at a run, surprised when Malfoy, face flaming and hands clenched on hips, said, "You know what, Weasley, I'm not going to go. I'm not. I have to live here too, and if you think I'm any happier about it than you are, you're mistaken. You're being heartless and selfish and a complete bastard here"

The bottle dropped to the floor, cold lager foaming over Ron's toes as he lunged from his chair and confronted Malfoy. His blood was singing, and he recognised that he'd wanted a confrontation, aching for it, desperate for the chance to yell and shout and let off some steam. "Shut up about things you don't know anything about! You call me a bastard – I'll bet you're a lot happier about this than if I'd refused and let you die."

"Oh, yes, I just love living in this little hovel, confined to my room, with nothing to do but get better."

"So, now that we're bonded, I should squander your money? Like your Death Eater mate was planning to? Great! I could do with a bigger house and some time off, away from the speculation and gossip and pointing and sneers."

"That's not what I meant. Stop twisting my words, Weasley."

"Me? Twist your words? There's no way you can justify yourself to me, Malfoy. You get hit by this curse and call in your life debt, and I'm the one who has to suffer!"

"You're not the only one suffering here!"

"No, because I can totally see how having your life saved is causing you pain and grief."

"Not me, you fool. Them. Hermione and Harry!"

Ron recoiled visibly, face paling, then flushing brighter than ever with venomous anger. "Don't ever, ever, speak their names to me again!" thundered Ron. He stepped closer, much taller and more physically menacing than Malfoy would be even if completely well. "Now get out of my sight, and stay out of it."

Malfoy glared at him. He turned on his heel and marched into the kitchen, where Ron could hear him clattering pans with unnecessary vigour, making it clear that Ron had not won that little bout outright. Ron contemplated, for a brief, joyous second, asserting his power over Malfoy and locking him in the bedroom all day. He knew Malfoy was too weak to do magic yet and wouldn't be able to escape. Even as he considered it, the anger faded, and he knew he couldn't do it. They were both trapped here, and there was no point making it worse on either of them. If they didn't make the alloted time – well, Hermione had been very explicit on the wasting death Malfoy would face.

Ron heard the Floo jangle, and wondered where he could hide. If only he'd thought to put on some more clothes, he would have Apparated away in an instant. Whoever this was, he wasn't in the mood.

When Luna stepped onto the balcony a few seconds later, she looked completely unsurprised by the scowl that greeted her. "I've brought you another beer, Ron," she announced calmly. "Though you look to me like you need a whiskey. I think I could do with one myself." She passed him the bottle and retreated back inside, reappearing a few moments later with a large bottle of whiskey and two tumblers. Ron smiled reluctantly. It was moments like this that he remembered why he loved Luna, in spite of her annexation of Harry.

She poured two generous measures into the glasses and handed one over. Ron could hear the low hum of voices from the kitchen and looked questioningly at Luna. "He's here," said Luna, in her dreamiest voice, "but I've told him to stay out of the way and stop alternating the wounded puppy eyes with the belligerent bull mastiff glare. It makes me damn queasy, so I can only imagine the effect it would have on you."

"You're so clever, Luna," said Ron, smiling reluctantly. "I probably would have blackened both puppy dog eyes."

"Exactly," nodded Luna. "I wouldn't have blamed you in the least, and would have been very unsympathetic, and then all three of us would have been dreadfully unhappy instead of only quite unhappy."

"Why are you quite unhappy?" asked Ron, surprised.

"Because I think Hermione and Harry are complete idiots who have their heads firmly up their arses on this subject."

Ron laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair. "Really?" he gasped.

"Oh, dear me, yes," she replied. "Here, have some more whiskey. I think you spilled some."

"But why?"

"Have they got their heads up their arses? Oh, because I think it was a shitty thing to blackmail you into, when a few days thought and some appeals to your sense of decency and you would have agreed voluntarily." Ron boggled at her. Waving an airy hand in the air, she continued, "They're making it worse now by not grovelling to you, you know. They should be laying it on thick about how much they love and appreciate you and admire the sacrifice you've made and generally making you feel like you've done something noble and good, and not like you've fucked up your strongest and most long-standing friendship over guilt and bitterness." She took a long swallow and sighed in pleasure. "This is really good whiskey."

"Luna," said Ron, in an awestruck whisper, "promise me you will run for Minister one day. I want to see you do that to the Wizengamot."

Luna laughed. "It's true, though, isn't it?"

Ron thought for a moment, and then reluctantly agreed. "Yeah. I probably would have done it voluntarily." His face twisted for a moment. "It doesn't matter, though, not when misery-guts Malfoy is making it clear that he hates me. A whole year of cohabiting with that!"

Luna nodded wisely. "It will be difficult. However, I propose to pay Draco a visit tomorrow that would shock and horrify Harry if he even suspected a half of what I intend to do."

Ron looked at the satisfied smile playing over her face, and prudently decided that he didn't want to know what she intended either. Sometimes, Luna was downright scary. She smiled warmly at him, and for a moment, Ron saw only his friend, who was madcap and crazy.

"Are you going to have a chat with Harry and Hermione too?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she said serenely. "I've already told Harry what I think – I got the bull mastiff face, so I suspect I hit some nerves. I'll try again today when Hermione comes round for lunch, so expect a big, extravagant display this afternoon sometime." She smiled, a crafty, evil little smirk that was shocking compared to the usual dreamy placidity of her face. "Make it difficult for them. Scream. Throw things. It does them both good to grovel."

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Luna was a miracle worker, concluded Ron. He wondered if flowers would be enough of a thank you present, or if he should go for gold and take out a subscription to the Quibbler. He did both, in the end, attaching a card to the fanged geraniums that read, "Let's run away to NZ together. I've read about a fantastic frog that inhabits an alternative plane of reality, where it's as big as a carthorse, though the part of it that we can see fits into your palm. I'll take photos, you write it up for the Quibbler."

Harry had made a Floo call that night to ask him not to proposition his wife again, as Luna was now planning what to pack to run away with Ron. Ron's heart only ached a little, and his smile was almost genuine. He laughed, and recommended that his friend put a little more effort into romance.

Malfoy grew less and less like a ghost every day, slowly winning back to fitness and trying, presumably under Luna's tutelage, to be friendly. Little things, like a plate of dinner in the oven if Ron worked late. Clean sheets on the bed if Ron missed his usual washing day. In return, Ron didn't scowl if Malfoy sat in the lounge or on the balcony with him, and offered him a game of chess if no more attractive diversion beckoned. He would occasionally ask after the progress of his health. He had even been known to bring home Malfoy's favourite food.

Existing as if he had a flatmate he wasn't particularly keen on became a comfortable habit for Ron. It was cosy to come home to a warm house, as high summer faded into autumn, with the lights on and the curtains pulled against the chill wind. Malfoy was a voracious reader, and the books he left lying round added to the friendly clutter of the flat. But they weren't friends. Which was why it was a surprise to find Malfoy sitting at the table, obviously waiting for him, with a sheaf of parchment in his hand and a tumbler of whiskey at his elbow.

Ron sat down and drained the glass left for him, pouring another as he waited for Malfoy to speak. "It appears that my recovery has stalled," said Malfoy. "I'm still too weak to do much magic, and am still having problems with nausea and faintness." Ron nodded mutely, taking another sip of his whiskey. "Hermione believes that there is a way for me to get better, but it requires your help."

Ron's lip curled sardonically. "So why isn't she here, ordering me to do it or else?"

"I think we've all learned from the last incident. I'll explain to you what you need to do, and you think about it and decide for yourself. She believes that after the year and a day is up, the curse will be broken and I'll be well again anyway, so if you refuse to do this, I can wait."

Ron's face was not encouraging. "Go on, then. I'm all ears." He took another big swallow of whiskey as Malfoy shuffled his parchments nervously.

"The curse requires… physical consummation of the union. Penetration." Draco blushed red, but continued, "Hermione believes that the curse may have built into it the requirement that the two parties have sex regularly for a full recovery to take place. Since the bond precludes hurting or plotting to hurt the bond partner, this would be a way for the person who cast the curse to ensure that the victim did not refuse sex after the obligatory coupling. The healers agree."

"So, you all think that if I fuck you on a regular basis, you'll get completely well?" Ron's voice was deceptively calm, and Malfoy nodded nervously. "But, if I refuse, you won't try to blackmail me, you'll just wait quietly for the curse to wear off?" Malfoy nodded again.

Ron contemplated this for several moments. "I owe Luna more flowers," he announced at last, ignoring Malfoy's look of confusion. "I'll be back later."

A brisk walk out to try to find a florist open at that time of night helped Ron sort his brain out immensely. He couldn't find flowers for Luna, but he found some chocolates shaped and coloured exactly like the magical seahorses she'd been telling him all about last time he'd seen her. He shook his head over the box. Muggles were so weird. How would they know about Mottled Musicbox Seahorses? But chocolate was chocolate, and it would annoy Harry a bit more. He bought some Muggle gift-wrap as well, and headed home to wrestle the paper on and send the parcel off.

The bedroom door was firmly shut, but there was shepherd's pie in the oven, a mute gift and reminder of Malfoy's request. Ron chuckled to himself as he wrapped the parcel and sent it off, with a card bearing protestations of undying love and renewed offers to run away. That should do Harry's head in. Tapping the plate to reheat it, Ron wolfed the shepherd's pie down, brain busy weighing up his options. He had to admit that Luna was right. His sense of decency and fairness was screaming away inside his head – it would be a small thing to do, to help Malfoy completely regain his health. Even if it did feel a little creepy.

He closed his eyes and imagined Malfoy, as he'd seen him tonight. Face still pointed, bones still prominent, but at least the skin was no longer grey and the eyes were no longer pained. He was starting to look quite attractive, actually. As squeamish as Ron felt at the thought of deliberately appreciating Malfoy, he forced himself to dwell on his attractiveness, trying to feel even the faintest frisson of lust. He imagined his eyes alight with glee, like Ron had seen them only the day before, when Malfoy finally won a game of chess. There, that was starting to warm up.

Before he could change his mind, Ron strode determinedly to the bathroom, retrieved the condoms and lubricant, and knocked on the bedroom door. Malfoy was sitting up in bed, reading yet another book. When he saw Ron clutching the provisions, he wordlessly put down his book, turned out the lights and pulled off his nightshirt. Ron stripped quickly and crawled onto the bed. He could just see Malfoy in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"Turn over," he said, voice gravelly. When Malfoy complied, Ron ran a soothing hand down his spine, curving it over the slight swell of his arse, massaging gently in the cleft. He heard Malfoy's hiss of breath at the intimate touch, and ran his hands down the backs of both thighs, encouraging him to move into a better position. Arse high in the air and feet spread, Malfoy was a mass of sharp angles and smooth, pale skin. Ron pooled lubricant on his fingers and rubbed them again against Malfoy's entrance. This time, Malfoy shuddered through a small whimper, and deliberately relaxed. Ron took his time, preparing him gently and thoroughly, letting the sight and smell and touch arouse him, until they were both ready. Condom on and lubed thoroughly, he gripped Malfoy's hips, relieved that the bones were more cushioned, the skin firmer and smoother, and slowly eased in.

Malfoy's breath caught again and hissed out in a shaky sigh. Ron paused, concerned that he'd hurt him, but Malfoy rocked back against him. Sliding all the way in, Ron was soon fully sheathed and comfortable. As he eased in and out, one hand slipped from a hip and found Malfoy's cock. Surprised to find it hard, Ron stroked it firmly. Malfoy made muffled little noises into the pillow and Ron forgot his restraint, thrusting hard and driving them both over the edge.

Slumped onto the mattress on the other side of the bed, Ron removed the spent condom and dropped it to the floor. Breathing hard, he melted into the mattress, planning to rest for just a few moments. He closed his eyes and slept.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Autumn passed, and the winter days were even colder, damp and pallid with the prospect of snow, or maybe sleet. The balcony door had to be shut, driving Ron and Draco inside, into a snug little bubble of light and warmth, where they could converse comfortably, fall into easy routines, and have pleasant, impersonal sex regularly. Ron never fell asleep in the bed again. Draco wondered why, and also when Weasley had morphed into Ron.

He put the kettle on for another cup of tea, wondering whether he should do the stupid Muggle exercises recommended by the vapid physiotherawitch – there was another witch who triggered all his repressed Lucian responses – or if another book was calling him. The Floo chimed and he looked up, startled. Luna stepped over the hearth and wandered into the kitchen.

She handed him a covered dish and smiled in her vague way. "Full of orange and wild parsnip," she said. "Very nourishing." Draco eyed it doubtfully and put it in the Muggle cold thing in the corner.

"Thanks," he said. "Tea?"

"That would be lovely," said Luna. "Then you can tell me what carnal delights you have been practicing in order to achieve that glowing complexion."

Jumping, Draco dropped the milk and shattered the jug all over the floor. Cold drops gleamed on his bare feet as he transferred his shocked stare from Luna's unconcerned face to the splattered floor. He waved his wand and cleaned the milk up, then repaired the jug. He carefully placed it on the bench, and looked at Luna again. "What?"

Looking amused, she waved one hand and said, "Really, Draco, of course I know that regular penetration from your husband is necessary for your recovery." He gaped as she continued, "It seems to be working well."

Draco was horrified. No one ever, ever, talked about a Malfoy and sex as blatantly as that. If it wasn't for his own, verifiable, existence, he would harbour doubts about whether his parents had actually ever had sex, they were so reserved. Luna appeared to guess his feelings. "I'm sorry, Draco, was that too crass? I never know quite where to stop. Ron is about as subtle as a wet fish to the face."

"He's told you about us?" squeaked Draco, dismayed.

"Were you making tea?" Luna asked, completely disregarding Draco's question. "I'm parched."

Draco levitated the teapot to the table, and this time left the milk in the bottle. "Why do you ask about how things are going?"

Looking vaguely surprised, Luna considered him. "Because I'm interested. You both seem happy and settled and that's really nice."

Sinking into his chair, Draco really looked at the woman opposite him. She poured a little milk into her cup before adding the tea, holding it cradled between her palms as she blew on the top. Happy and settled? Was that what she saw? "Do we?" he asked.

Draco took a moment to wrap his mind around the concept. True, Ron never infuriated him like he used to. He played great chess. He was a master with household charms. His wit was biting when discussing the latest ministry foibles. He looked divine naked and sprawled under him, long freckled fingers digging into his thighs as his cock slid inside Draco.

Luna took a sip of her tea. "Yes," she said, "you do."

Perhaps it was time for more than therapy in the bed.

 

&gt;&gt;&gt;

Ron braced his hands on the counter, watching the last of the dishes fly into the cupboards as Malfoy packed away the chess set. Harry and Hermione had been over earlier, making up a cosy little quartet of talking and laughing, and Ron had felt scarcely a tremor as he talked to them. Was this what forgiveness felt like? He wondered, he really did, as the cloth wiped over every surface in a swift cleaning.

Malfoy sent that look over his shoulder as he headed down the hallway. The look that was partly self-deprecating, partly lustful, the look that clearly invited Ron into his room. Ron followed, raw passion already stirring deeply in his body.

He found Malfoy already naked; legs spread wide, hand lazily stroking his cock. Ron stripped hastily and joined him, running teasing fingers up one white thigh, now smoothly muscled and strong: perfect, so Ron had discovered, for wrapping around his waist. Ron leaned forward and traced his lips up the leg, finally stopping to nuzzle behind Malfoy's balls. Ignoring his cock, Ron kissed around his hips and stomach, slowly easing his body over Malfoy's.

Malfoy wrapped an urgent hand around the back of Ron's neck, pulling him closer and leaning up to press a clumsy kiss against Ron's lips, the first touch of lips to lips since the ceremony in May. Ron pulled back quickly, breaking the grasp on his neck and rubbing the back of his hand over his lips, as if to remove the stain. Malfoy propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Ron worriedly. "Ron?" he asked, voice uncertain.

Ron scrambled back to the very end of the bed. "No," he said hoarsely. "That's not in the deal." Turning abruptly, not even bothering to collect his clothes, he fled the room to lie on his sofa bed and stare at the ceiling, brain whirling in restless circles.

He left the next morning before Malfoy emerged from the bedroom, burying himself in his paperwork and scowling at his colleagues. When Luna strolled in at noon and announced they were going on a picnic he simply sighed resignedly and collected his cloak.

Luna never bothered to make his favourite foods when she wanted to talk, and had the craziest taste in picnic spots. At least this band rotunda was dry, Ron supposed. He waited for her to start.

"Do you know how I seduced Harry?" she asked finally. Ron blinked several times, in no way prepared for this question. He shook his head, dumbly. "He was quite reluctant," she continued, "didn't want to hurt your feelings by getting seriously involved with someone." Ron flushed bright red at the thought that Harry might have known all along about the hopeless love he'd harboured. Surprisingly, there was no ache mixed in with the shame. Luna smiled reminiscently. "So I had to be crafty. I won't go into details. But if I had been trying to seduce you, Ron Weasley, I would have gone about it vastly differently."

Ron spluttered into his egg sandwich, but Luna patted him on the back kindly and he recovered himself. "You were saying?" he squeaked.

"Oh, yes, if I was going to seduce you. Yes, well, you're a very decent man, Ron, with a great stock of consideration. But you don't over think things, do you? Not like Harry. Getting his brain to shut up and stop fretting over this and that is quite tricky sometimes. One has to be inventive. But enough about Harry. You. With you, it would be a great mistake to change your mind about the status of your relationship, or your feelings, and not tell you, right upfront, about that change. You can't be relied on to guess through actions."

"Thank you. I think," said Ron. "Are you saying Malfoy's in love with me?"

She shrugged. "He was rather upset when I left, so I'm guessing that he's not just in it for acquaintances-with-benefits until the curse lifts." Ron felt a little stab of guilt run through him as he thought of Malfoy crying over him.

"Malfoy tried to kiss me," Ron muttered. "What was I supposed to do?"

"I imagine that you were supposed to kiss him back, and probably spend the night in his bed, and quite possibly kiss him again in the morning. Also, you were probably supposed to start calling him Draco."

"Luna, when you say waspish things in that dreamy voice, it makes me really regret being gay."

"Shameless hussy," retorted Luna, "I was all packed for a trip to NZ too."

"If you're right about this, I need to think about it."

"Of course," said Luna. "It's a constant source of amazement to me that Harry and Hermione have been your friends since you were all eleven and still have not the faintest idea of how to handle you. Draco can be excused, but he should really stop taking their advice."

"I'd really appreciate it if you stopped talking about me like I'm a temperamental hippogriff, thanks."

"From what I heard this morning, you're definitely hung like one."

Ron blushed bright red and stared at Luna in amazement. "What?"

"It must be nice to have a big cock," she said, still in that dreamy voice. "Or to be with someone who has one. Oh, yes, I thought Harry's ears were going to burn right off when Draco started on about your huge cock. Draco quite forgot himself in his concern that he might have ruined everything."

"Enough, Luna! No more about my cock, you're making him nervous."

Luna nodded. "If you want to thank me this time, how about sending me a picture of him sometime when he's not so nervous. That should make Harry explode."

Ron laughed until his sides hurt, lying helplessly on the dusty floor of the rotunda, Luna picked up a carrot stick and toyed with it, sliding it in and out of her mouth, eyeing him mischievously. "Luna, stop it," he gasped. "I'm going to be sick." She stuck her tongue out at him and helped him sit up, banishing the dust from his robes with a quick charm.

"I'll get you a life sized chocolate one," Ron promised, still catching his breath. "Tied with a big blue ribbon."

"That would be lovely, Ron," said Luna. "But don't you think you should get back to work, first?"

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Ron sat long over his paperwork that afternoon, staring at it sightlessly and wondering what the hell Malfoy saw in him. It wasn't as if Ron was rich or famous or sexy or brilliantly clever. He was just ordinary. Just plain, decent, old Ron Weasley. Nothing special. That's why Ron had never bothered trying with Harry. Why would someone as special and amazing as Harry be interested in him? Harry who was independently wealthy, and just played Quidditch for fun?

As if on cue, Luna appeared in his head, accompanied by his mother and, oddly enough, Fleur. They shook their heads at him and sighed. Reminding him of all the times they had told him not to sell himself short, to have more confidence.

Maybe they were right, and he should take the chance. He gathered up his papers into a big pile and grabbed his cloak. His boss didn't even wait for the explanation, telling him to go home and not come back until he'd sorted whatever the problem was.

Malfoy was huddled in a chair by the window, book forgotten at his feet and hands cradling a mug of tea. Ron hung his cloak on the peg by the door and turned to find Malfoy looking at him, painful hope warring with guarded fear and a little, imperfectly concealed, anger in his face.

Ron creased his face into what he hoped was a friendly smile. "Hello, Draco," he said. "I finished work early. Would you like to go into Muggle London with me this afternoon?"

Draco's face shone in the biggest smile Ron had ever seen him wear, fear and, he hoped, anger melting away. "I'd be happy to," he said. "Do you want a cup of tea first? The pot's still warm."

"That would be lovely," said Ron. "Just lovely."

Later, as they dragged on Muggle jackets – Draco in one that Harry had left behind and Ron had never had the heart to throw out – Draco asked curiously, "What are we going to buy?"

Smiling wryly, Ron handed Draco a scarf. "We're looking for a chocolate cock as big as mine for Luna. Then we're going to charm the box to say very complimentary things about my prowess in bed when opened."

The scarf dropped from Draco's fingers. "Harry will explode," he said in awed tones.

"I know," said Ron, smugly. "That's what friends are for."

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

As winter faded into a damp, blustery spring, Ron got better and better at smiling and talking and laughing and Draco's name rose more naturally to his lips. Harry and Luna were glowing, as usual, and Hermione was still pretending that she and George were just friends. Ron shook his head over that one. He hated to think what would happen if they had kids. Bushy red hair, brilliant pranksters. He wished that Snape were still alive, just so he could have the pleasure of imagining him, confronted with Granger-Weasley children. Ferociously bright, devilishly mischievous children, taking apart his potions classroom.

Ron and Draco talked and laughed and did things together – but no sex. They would hug, or hold hands, or share a sweet kiss goodnight, but that was it. Nothing more. Ron didn't want to take advantage of Draco when he wasn't sure of what his feelings were. But he was getting surer of them every day. This particular day in early March, he was sure enough to take home a big bag of Draco's favourite finger foods, a bottle of wine, and a big bunch of flowers. He was unsure about the flowers, and wished he'd thought to ask Luna's advice before buying them. He hoped Draco would like them anyway.

He opened the door to find Draco lying on the floor in a patch of dying sunlight, reading yet another book. He looked up as the door opened and a smile crossed his face. He jumped to his feet and came forward, face brightening even further as Ron handed him the flowers and dropped a gentle kiss on his temple.

"They're for me?" he asked. "They're beautiful."

"Put them in some water while I get dinner ready," said Ron.

"Dinner? Get ready?" echoed Draco. "Voluntarily? Who are you, and what have you done with Ron Weasley?"

Ron laughed and produced the bags, crammed with cheese and crackers and olives and all the other necessary items for a leisurely meal of grazing. Draco's eyes laughed as he arranged the flowers in the vase. "Okay, then," he said, "set that up on platters and we'll eat in front of the fire."

After dinner was over, Ron picked up Draco's hand and tugged him down to sit next to him when he would have got up to set the dishes going. "Leave them," he said, "there's something we need to talk about."

Draco nodded. "Okay then."

"Draco, I've really enjoyed these last few weeks with you. It's been great. But, I think my feelings for you have changed." He risked a glance up and saw Draco's devastated face. "Not like that!" he said. "I mean, well, you've come to mean a lot to me." Ron took a deep breath, glanced up again, and blurted, "I'm in love with you."

Next moment, he was pinned to the floor with Draco holding onto him tightly, pressing their bodies together. He felt sobs shaking the other man and patted his back awkwardly, murmuring in his ear, "Hey, how can I kiss you if you're crying?"

Draco laughed then, rubbing his eyes on a fold of Ron's robe and climbing completely on top of Ron. One of Ron's big hands cupped the back of Draco's neck, urging him closer, bringing their lips together. Draco kissed like he was trying to crawl inside Ron, and their tongues battled and snaked around each other.

Ron broke free, tipping his head back to drag in necessary lungfuls of air. "Lovely though this is," he said, "Perhaps it would be even more comfortable in bed."

Draco was off him like a shot, waiting impatiently for him to climb to his feet before dragging him down the hallway to the bedroom. Once inside, Ron pushed Draco up against the wall and kissed him slowly, leisurely twining their tongues together as his fingers flicked open the fastenings on his robe. Ron slid Draco's robe off his shoulders, leaving him to wriggle out of it as he dealt quickly with his own robes. Once they were skin on skin, hands and lips started roaming everywhere they could reach, and Ron steered them backwards, towards the bed.

Ron couldn't get enough of kissing Draco. Even as they reacquainted their hands with each other's bodies, their lips remained locked together. It was only as Ron handed Draco the lubricant that he pulled his lips away. "I think it's time you fucked me," he said, lying back and spreading his legs invitingly. Draco's eyes widened impossibly, and his fingers shook as he squeezed out a dollop of lube onto them. Ron grinned encouragingly, then moaned in pleasure as two fingers pressed in.

Once Draco was inside him, Ron pulled him down for another kiss. The intimacy was incredible, and Ron felt like his whole body was singing with pleasure and love. As Draco came inside him, Ron heard him gasp out his name and a breathless little declaration of love. Then he was lost, coming hard in a sticky trail between their stomachs.

Draco pulled back and banished the condom to the rubbish bin before cleaning Ron's stomach with a brisk charm. He draped himself over Ron again, and Ron kissed him once more. This was amazing. Ron was sure he had never felt like this before. He felt strong, confident, sexy and secure. There was no ache. It was all thanks to Draco. A small snore escaped Draco's lips, and Ron smiled. He relaxed back into the mattress and enjoyed the new feelings until the soft snores of his lover, his husband, lulled him to sleep.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Luna stepped out of the Floo the next morning in her usual dreamy fashion, followed a few moments later by Harry, who tripped over the hearthrug and fell face first into the leftovers of last night's dinner. His outraged cursing roused Ron from the bedroom. Stumbling into the lounge, he joined Luna in amused appreciation of his more creative phrasings.

Harry finished with a venomous glare at Ron. "Why the hell is the rug covered with food, anyway? And how the hell am I going to remove this oil from my shirt?"

Ron rolled his eyes and directed a charm over Harry's shirt. The stain faded, and Harry poked it with suspicious fingers as Ron, losing interest, turned for the kitchen. Luna dropped into her usual chair and said, cheerily, "Tea, please."

Ron waved his wand at the kettle, which started to steam, and four mugs flew onto the bench. He yawned. "Harry, you're a wizard. You can clean oil stains out of your clothes. Now come and sit down." Harry sat next to Luna, still scowling. Draco wandered out, hair mussed and face still sleepy. He slumped into a chair and Ron handed him a cup of tea, pressing a kiss onto his temple. Draco blushed and buried his face in his mug.

Harry looked from one to the other. His gaze sharpened. "Have you two been shagging?" he asked. "Again?"

Ron blushed too, all the way to the tips of his ears. He levitated Harry's cup with unnecessary vigour and smiled nastily as it slopped over onto his shirt. Luna's dreamy voice interrupted the beginnings of a pout.

"Of course they have," she said, patting Harry's hand. "Didn't you see that charming colony of Domestic Blissweevils in the grate as you came through? They'd only be here if there was true love."

"Domestic Blissweevils?" asked the three men, altogether.

"Oh, yes," said Luna. "Although, I must say that the hickey on Ron's neck is even more of a dead giveaway."

Ron blushed scarlet and clapped his hand to the side of his neck, ignoring Harry's burst of laughter.

"Draco," he hissed, "What did you do that for?"

Draco put down his cup, face a little pink still. "It's not as bad as having one on your arse," he said. "Shall I show them your handiwork?"

Ron blushed even harder. True love might feel nice, but he would be happy when he stopped blushing.


End file.
